


One Man's Words (is another man's spank fodder)

by foxpuppet



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Dirty Talk, Humiliation kink, M/M, Masturbation, Mutual Pining, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Praise Kink, Sexual Fantasy, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Verbal Humiliation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-08
Updated: 2018-06-08
Packaged: 2019-05-19 17:08:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14877897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foxpuppet/pseuds/foxpuppet
Summary: “Look at you,” fantasy Simmons said, “You pathetic monkey-spanking bitch. You like the idea of your superior officer belittling you so much you're already about to come.”---“You make me so hard,” fantasy Grif said, all lazy smile and bedroom eyes. “You’re so fucking pretty, Simmons.”---Grif likes the way Simmons is mean. Simmons wishes Grif were kind. They each have a private wank session thinking about the other. That is all.





	One Man's Words (is another man's spank fodder)

**Author's Note:**

> Don't mind the canon, dears. We never use it

It was hot. It was always hot in Blood Gulch, but still. It was hot and Grif was about to lose his ever-loving shit.

He was collapsed on his bunk, naked. The tiny window was opaqued against the unending sunlight. The crappy atmosphere-control did little to dispel the heat that built up in the tiny room. It would be cooler outside. By scant degrees. Certainly not enough to convince Grif to pull on his armour, or even what few items of civilian clothing he had and drag his chunky arse out there. 

Besides, if he got up he would likely run into Sarge. Or Simmons. Then he’d be roped into work, free time be damned. If work/life balance were actually respected here Grif might have been more dutiful when he was rostered on.

Okay, that was a lie.

“You’re a lying piece of shit, Grif,” he muttered to himself, imitating Simmons as best he could. He grinned a little to himself and added, “A lazy lying piece of shit. A fat, useless, waste of rations.” He stopped to bite his lip, feeling his cock starting to fill as he imagined Simmons standing over him. Insulting him. 

He glanced at the door. None of the locks worked. Sarge had told them that they shouldn’t be doing anything that required the door to be locked in the first place. Then shot all the locks out with his shotgun.

Still, he was off duty. No one should be looking for him for a while yet.

Grif licked his lips and recalled Simmons’ voice. The man had such a perfect voice for belittlement. His tone that got so clipped and short when he was frustrated. The inherent sense of superiority he filled his statements with. The way he could put so much judgement into one word, like “what?” or “Grif.” The thought of it alone made Grif hard.

Grif moaned quietly as he watched his dick begin to swell, gripping the sheet beside his thighs; not wanting to touch yet.

He imagined the curl of Simmon’s thin lip, the look of disdain he would have watching Grif squirming on the sheets. Just his pale eyes calling Grif pathetic, disgusting. Grif’s hips rolled of their own accord. He gasped vocally, then bit back more noise.

One of his hands slid from the sheet onto his thigh. He hummed, rocking his hips again.

“Look at you,” fantasy Simmons said, “You pathetic monkey-spanking bitch. You like the idea of your superior officer belittling you so much you're already about to come.”

Grif’s entire lower body rolled at the emphasis. God, he needed to do this more because he really was close to coming already. Obviously, he was neglecting himself. But it was just always too hot to even think about jacking off, let alone actually doing it. 

But he was committed enough now that even the heat, which stopped him from doing nearly everything, wasn't going to hold him back. 

He tapped a fingertip against the head of his cock. His abdomen twitched in time. Fantasy Simmons was watching him with uninterested disgust. 

“You can't even bring your lazy arse to give yourself a proper hand job,” fantasy Simmons sneered. 

You could do it for me, Grif responded in his mind. 

“I wouldn't deign to touch your filthy cock, Grif,” fantasy Simmons said, “But I can't rely on you to do a good job of anything. So I'm going to watch and make sure you don't fuck this up like everything else you do.” 

During that imagined tirade Grif had gripped himself roughly, began tugging quickly. He breathed through his nose in a not-quite moan. His hips rolled up into his hand. 

“Slow down you arsehole,” fantasy Simmons demanded, “Don't do one of your sloppy jobs, you lazy fuck.”

Grif was holding back whimpers. Fuck he was into this. It had been way too long. 

He slowed his hand, added a twist. He reached down to fondle his balls, press his perineum. His fingers skated back to tease at his hole and fantasy Simmons snorted. 

“Of course an animal like you would like it in the arse,” he said with a huge roll of his eyes. “You like fat dicks in your filthy arsehole, you fucking slut? You want someone to come along and pound that hole until you scream like a bitch? Fat lazy piece of arse getting other people to do all the hard work while you just lay there and take it? God, you're pathetic.”

Grif’s hand had sped up again. He was huffing air through his nose, eyes clenched tight. 

“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath. “Fuck yeah, Simmons.” 

“You're fucking gross, Grif. Pathetic and gross,” fantasy Simmons responded. “Getting off to your teammate. The real Simmons would throw up at the thought of you with your hand on your dick. Let alone knowing you were thinking of him.”

Okay, that one was a little too harsh. But it was just enough to push Grif over the edge. He let out a long quiet groan, body twitching and pulsing as he shot his load all over himself. 

“Now you're even more filthy, you jackass,” fantasy Simmons finished before sinking back into the hidden corners of Grif's mind. 

Grif breathed a little heavier, tempted to never move again. Then he became aware of how sweaty he was. And sticky. And he remembered why he didn't do this often. 

“Ugh, clean up,” he muttered. 

He glanced around but there wasn't really anything in his ridiculously tiny bunk room that could help. He huffed and fell back again.

If he went out now covered in spunk he would definitely get caught. That was his kind of luck.

But he was starting to itch. And as much of a pig as he was, he hated the feeling of being unclean. But then, so did actual pigs. So it fit. He guessed. 

He groped around until he found a, clean?, pair of boxers and yanked them on still laying down. Even Grif wasn't inconsiderate enough to wander communal areas with his dick out. If he was sure someone else would be there. 

With an old man noise, he got off the bed and moved to the door. Peeking out the corridor was clear. Trying to be quick but quiet at the same time Grif scurried towards the communal bathroom. 

\---

Out of the corner of his eye, Simmons thought he saw Grif ducking into the bathroom. But he could care less at the moment. 

Sarge had had him standing in the sun for his entire watch because his latest pet theory was that if the Blues could see them they would be too intimidated to attack. 

It was bullshit, of course. But it was so hot no one wanted to do anything, so Sarge was getting major false positives on his plan. 

Which meant Simmons had to stand in the sun until he felt sick with it. 

Even before the door to his cupboard of a bunk had slid shut he was stripping everything off. 

“Fucking get off me!” he snarled, tearing away the undersuit in chunks and throwing it into a pile on the floor where it would pull itself back together again, good as new. 

Finally free of the stifling uniform Simmons threw himself face first onto his bed, definitely not sulking. 

He worked so goddamn hard and did he ever get anything for it? Aside from personal satisfaction at a job well done. A little recognition would be nice though. A kind word, a pat on the back.

Well, he did get some recognition. From Sarge. But it never seemed to be enough. Simmons was a glutton for praise. He just wanted to soak in it, bask in the glorious feeling of wholeness approval gave him.

Sarge was limited enough in his accolades but Grif wouldn’t even acknowledge all the good work Simmons did. Not even when Simmons did Grif’s work for him. Not that he did it so Grif would be nice to him. He did it because no one else would.

Did it ever occur to Grif that he should say something? Thank you? You did well? You work so hard?

Thinking of Grif, gruff, rude, endlessly complaining Grif, saying something nice was almost laughable. So unlikely it seemed like a joke. Like a fantasy.

Simmons shifted on the bed. Not that kind of fantasy. 

Well, maybe that kind of fantasy.

The one time Grif had ever said a kind word to Simmons it had been in the showers. An awkward place to get a compliment at the best of times. He had been casually watching Simmons over the waist-high shower stall as he lazily soaped up a loofah. Then he had suddenly spoken.

“You’re really pretty, aren’t you?” Grif had said like he was stating a fact. Like Simmons would agree with him.

Simmons had spluttered. He wasn’t even sure he’d managed to produce words.

“Yeah,” Grif had continued, like Simmons wasn’t making noises like something dying, “In that college boy in a b-movie slasher kind of way.”

Then he had turned his back on Simmons and continued washing. Like it wasn’t a big deal. Like he hadn’t just completely upended Simmons’ world.

Because that had been arousing. Incredibly, unexpectedly arousing.

Possibly because Simmons thought Grif was pretty good-looking too. In that no fucks given dad-body kind of way.

After that, he had sort of started thinking about Grif while masturbating. Sometimes. And just about Grif praising him. Maybe touching him. But nothing more than that.

Thinking about it now had Simmons shifting against the mattress. Pressing his soft dick against scratchy sheets as those words came back to him.

“You’re really pretty.”

He wondered what else Grif would say if he could ever be convinced to say something nice. 

“You’re really pretty.”

“You’re really smart.”

“You work really hard.”

“You make me really hard.”

Simmons snorted to himself, but his dick was still rising. He fiddled with the sheets and pushed his hips, not really invested enough to roll over. 

“You make me so hard,” fantasy Grif said, all lazy smile and bedroom eyes. “You’re so fucking pretty, Simmons.”

Simmons bit his lip, ground a bit harder.

“You do so much for me, for everyone,” fantasy Grif continued, “You’re such a good boy.”

Simmons whimpered aloud. It was a dumb phrase. It made him sound like a dog. It made him ridiculously hard.

“You’re such a good, good boy, Simmons,” fantasy Grif said, his voice warm like it never was. “You do so well. You work so hard for me.”

It wasn’t for Grif. Simmons rolled over, palmed at his cock. It wasn’t even for Sarge. But it was nice to be appreciated.

“Good boys get rewards, don’t they?” fantasy Grif all but purred, looming over Simmons in his mind. “That’s right.”

Simmons was finally jerking himself, chewing his lip and panting.

“So fucking pretty. So fucking hot, Simmons.” Fantasy Grif was jerking Simmons cock with him, directing him to move fast, squeeze tight. “God, look at you. I could look at you forever. You’re doing so well, baby.”

Simmons flushed, blotchy and obvious against his fair skin, at the pet-name. But his hand kept pace. He was panting louder.

“That’s it, show me how you come. I wanna see your face. I wanna see what you look like when you’re wanting me. You look so beautiful when you’re all hot and bothered for me,” fantasy Grif said, voice low and slow and arousing.

Simmons planted his feet, felt his buttocks clenching, his abdomen flexing, as he wanked harder. He was close already, so ready to just let go. To just give it up to Grif.

“That’s it, sweetheart. So fucking perfect.”

And Simmons was coming a river. All over his hand, all over his stomach. Curling his lips between his teeth and whining through his nose, praying he wasn’t being too loud. His other hand stole down to rub and press his balls as they clenched tight, coaxing his orgasm to be a little longer.

When he was done he slowly untensed, feeling the release sweep through his tired, overheated body like a cooling balm. With a sigh, he finally lay back.

After too long to be lying around covered in sweat and come Simmons roused himself enough to grope at the floor of his bedside. Finally, his hand landed on his wet wipes. Swiping the cool cloth over enough of himself that he didn’t feel completely disgusting Simmons kicked the sweaty sheet away and just lay there.

He drifted on a contented sea of chemicals, his mind quiet for a while.

\---

As Grif was headed back to his room he paused at Simmons’ door. He thought about knocking and asking how Simmons was doing, after all that time in the sun. Maybe call Sarge an arsehole and watch Simmons suppress a guilty smile. Maybe offer to get him a drink from the galley. 

His hand hovered over the metal, then dropped. 

He doubted Simmons wanted Grif to bust in on his personal time and be weird at him. 

Grif continued down the hall to his bunk.


End file.
